


The Passing Clock

by QuietBubbles



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Class Differences, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Historical, M/M, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-25 18:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21360571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuietBubbles/pseuds/QuietBubbles
Summary: Victorian England. Philip Lester, an affluent and troubled writer, is forced to hire a new assistant. Celia, his wife, does not understand why the last one had to go-but with the advent of Daniel Howell, history may be doomed to repeat itself. However, a turbulent lover, a terrible secret, and a grandfather clock cast shadows over them all, set to prevent any seeds of hope from seeing the sunlight...but will they find a way to grow in the shade?My latest attempt at fanfiction. Will be updated regularly. Hope you enjoy xxx
Relationships: Dan Howell & Phil Lester, Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	1. Time

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry it’s been so long since my last fic-nearly a year, I think! I have been hellishly busy, but I’ve missed writing and posting so much. When this new idea came to me…I knew it was time, hahaha…and I am so excited to share it! This is a historical fic, but I don’t claim to be an expert, and I will probably get things wrong. Hope this is still enjoyable!
> 
> I am generally very good at posting regularly, but I won’t manage my usual chapter-a-day at the moment. Therefore, I will update every other day-today is Friday (UK time), so I will update on Sunday, then Tuesday, and so on until it is finished. Once more, thank you for reading, and I really, really hope you like it! See you Sunday xxx

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

It never stopped. The gentle passing of time, marked by the grandfather clock that had stood in the corner of the drawing room since the first time Celia had entered her marital home. From her seat on the couch, cushion-strewn enough to disguise the fact that the designer had sacrificed comfort for fashion, she appreciated the noise; asides from being comforting, it broke the stony silence of the scene.

So quiet was the house that Celia swore she would have been able to hear her own blood flowing, were it not for the ticking of the clock. The matter of flowing blood was on her mind anyway; the heavy book in her lap concerned the matter of the circulation system-detailed analysis of the structure of the heart, and the means by which it operated to keep one alive. The whole thing was more fascinating than Celia could possibly express. Hours of careful study of the text, cross-referencing it with other medical tomes to ensure complete understanding, had opened yet another world of anatomical wonder to her. The workings of the human body, the means by which it maintained a perfect equilibrium to create the perfect environment for life, now occupied her every waking moment.

As she made a small note in the margin of the book, she considered the grandfather clock once more. It was a beautiful old thing, six feet tall and so ornately carved with fruits and leaves that Celia was certain even an hour’s exclusive viewing would not reveal every detail. Some mental calculations that morning had revealed that the hands upon the yellowed faced had now passed through roughly thirteen thousand rotations in the near year and a half she had lived in this large townhouse. Seventeen months…seventeen months of near unbroken study…she had never imagined that such bliss was possible.

Over the top of the cover, something caught her eye.

“Philip.”

Her voice, low and certain, shot across the coffee table to the young man who sat opposite. In fact, her husband was her opposite in every conceivable way. He was tall, while she barely reached five feet. His hair was short and dark, while hers, long and copper-coloured, fell in curls to her waist when it was loose. His eyes, blue to her brown, barely looked up from his reading as he gave a distracted: “Hmph?”

“Your tea.” she reminded him.

“What-oh!” So absorbed in his book was he that Philip had quite forgotten about the teacup in his hand, holding it loosely, and at a strange angle, so that the hot liquid inside threatened to spill into his lap. However, in his haste to correct it, he jerked too hard, and a cascade of toffee-brown tea splashed directly onto his thigh. “Ouch!”

“Are you burned?” Celia asked calmly, setting down her book.

“Er-not really.” Philip responded, picking at his wet clothes. Instinctively, he had thrown his own reading aside to ensure it was not tea-stained, and now the little book lay upside-down and spread out like a bird in flight on the cushions. “No real damage done.”

“Some damage.” Celia’s patient tone was well-practiced. “Your trousers are spoiled.” 

“Oh-yes. Well. They were rather old, weren’t they?” Philip murmured, without any real knowledge of the age of the garments. He had begun to rub, fruitlessly, at the stain. “Perhaps I need some new ones. I shall go into town tomorrow morning, and-“

“Philip.”

“Mmm?”

“You have forgotten again.” Celia stated, her voice now rather flat. “You cannot go out tomorrow morning, because your new assistant is scheduled to arrive at ten o’clock.”

“_Oh._”

For the first time, Philip was looking straight at her. Those eyes, that same intense blue she had gazed into on their wedding day, seventeen months ago, were now extremely wide. And not just wide. Far removed from the dizzy haze of his distraction, they were riddled with anxiety. 

“Oh yes,” he breathed, a hand clutching at his collar, as if he was suddenly extremely hot. “You’re quite right…” He paused, pressing his lips together-before his tone became almost frantic. “Won’t you be here?”

“He is not my assistant.” Celia had taken up her book once again. “He is yours. Besides-I am due to visit Josephine at half past the hour.”

“Ah. Yes. Josephine. Of course.” Philip continued to tug at his collar, looking rather pale. “But-but can’t you visit later on? I really would prefer it if you were here too.”

Celia had long learned not to question her husband’s bouts of nervousness. Philip could easily dream the day away with his nose in a book, his thoughts in space, and his soul contented. He did not like to be troubled with such trivial worldly matters as cups of tea or new assistants. Sometimes, Celia doubted whether Philip would notice if she walked into the room with her face painted bright blue. Perhaps this was why he had never objected to her choices of reading material…

“No.” she responded pointedly. “I told Josephine half past ten, and I plan to arrive at her home at precisely that time. Not a minute after.”

Philip did not answer straight away. The nervous tugging at his collar had become nervous tugging at his hair. But, after a moment…he appeared to resign himself, reluctantly, to his fate. Getting to his feet, he stifled a yawn. “Quite. Well. I-I think I am going to retire to my study for the evening. To…to…er-“

“Change your trousers first” Celia reminded him.

Stopping immediately in his rambling, Philip looked down at the dark stain on his thigh as if he had almost forgotten that it was there. When he saw it, he gave a small, shaky laugh. The eyes with which he regarded his wife now had grown rather soft. “Oh Celia. What would I do without you? You are my mind.”

“Someone must be.” Celia gave a tight smile in return. “It must have been good, then?”

“What?” Philip had already begun to leave the room, but he turned around to listen.

“Your book. It must be a good book.”

“Yes.” Philip agreed, looking back at the discarded book with a most curious expression on his face. “Yes, I suppose it-_poetry_.” he interrupted himself, looking awkward. “It’s poetry. “

“Ah yes.” Celia leaned forward slightly, narrowing her eyes a fraction. “…Inspirational?”

Whether Philip had ignored the question, or chose not to answer, was left to the imagination. “I shall go and change.” he muttered, that harassed expression crossing his face yet again as he closed the door behind him.

Now alone in the drawing room, Celia marked her place in the anatomy book carefully, before shutting it. She stared for a moment at the empty doorframe, wondering, as she often did, what it was that went on inside the brain of Philip Lester-what occupied him, what perpetually distracted him. From a brief meeting with him, one might have got the impression that he was slow, or stupid. Nothing could be further from the truth. His was one of the most brilliant minds Celia had ever met, bursting at the seams with an imagination that most could only dream of. His stories, serialised for months on end in the _Chronicle_, were the work of a genius. It was small tasks, the mundanity of life, that phased him.

Of course, it had been some time since there had been a new story.

Celia had been, admittedly, rather cruel to probe him about inspiration. This bout of writer’s block had been the longest yet. Philip struggled for hours at his desk, but the words that ordinarily flowed from him like water simply would not come-as if someone had sealed the tap. And Celia was still none the wiser as to what exactly had caused it.

_Why_ the idea of a new assistant so upset him, Celia did not know. He had dismissed the old one only a few weeks before, presenting poor Thomas Warren a good reference and no concreate reason for giving it-none that Celia had been made aware of, in any case. That was even more of a mystery-Warren had been quite efficient, and had never caused any amount of bother significant enough for her to notice-and Celia noticed everything. The additional stress of a new assistant was, in her opinion, utterly avoidable. But Philip had made his bed, and now he would lie in it.

Above her head, she heard the door to Philip’s bedchamber-directly beside her own-slam shut.

* * *

“How can you be so _stupid_, Daniel?” Fredrick’s voice echoed up into the spreading branches of the tree. “How can you? How can you?”

Daniel was utterly bemused by this violent reaction. Shivering in his threadbare coat, he gazed up at the man he loved with hurt and confusion. All around them, the silence of the heath at night was broken only by the occasional hooting of an owl, or the scrabbling of a mouse in the leaves at their feet. Otherwise, by humans at least, the place was utterly deserted. A near perfect place to meet in secret. And yet, Fredrick's voice seemed as loud as thunder claps. “…I thought it would be nice…”

“A _letter_?” Fredrick ripped the offending object out of his breast pocket, holding the page of tender handwriting that Daniel had agonised over for hours an inch away from his face. In the moonlight, he could barely make the words out. “What if someone else had opened the envelope first? One of the staff? Or worse-Mother and Father?” Fredrick stuffed the letter back into his pocket, crumpling it slightly in the process, and gave an extremely put-upon sigh. “I am going to _have_ to burn it.” 

Daniel felt as though he were being crumpled up too. Fredrick’s face, usually so handsome, was twisted by rage, its delicate creamy hue stained red. His thick blond hair, which ordinarily fell delicately around his face, was scraped back to his skull. And those eyes, those big blue eyes that had, the day he had first seen them, mesmerised Daniel almost to the point of hypnotism? They were as cold as ice.

“…I just wanted you to know that I was thinking of you.” he whispered, hanging his head.

“And why would I want that?” Fredrick snapped. He placed his hand upon Daniel’s shoulder-but there was nothing gentle or loving about this gesture. Leaning in close, he spoke quietly, but very sharply. “Get this into your head right now.” he barked, his face inches from Daniel’s. “If we are found out, I am finished. _Finished_! At _best_, I will be disinherited. Do you understand? They would cut me off without a penny. I would have nothing at all!”

The look in his eyes. It was as if someone had suggested that he might be shot dead.

“That wouldn’t matter.” gushed Daniel, his heart beginning to race. How he hated it when Fredrick got like this…and yet, as always, he found himself instantly ready to forgive him. To forgive him anything in the world. “Nothing matters, as long as you and I are together!” He reached up, and covered Fredrick’s hand with his own, trying to take it. “We don’t need-“

But Fredrick had begun to laugh. There was no warmth in his laugh. In fact, he hardly smiled at all. But he laughed, a high, cold sound, like death-bells in the silent heath. “Do you know what? Sometimes, I don’t know whether to kiss you, or shout at you!” He shook his head, tilting his head to the side and looking at Daniel as if he were an ignorant child. “You poor fool-you will never understand. I could not live the way that _you_ live.”

“But I love my life.” Daniel blinked hard, using his apparent surprise to hide the fact that he was blinking back tears. “I have my own room, a new job, and-and I have you!” Once again, he tried to take Fredrick’s hand, to no avail. “The most wonderful person in the-“

“_Precisely_.” Fredrick snatched his hand away impatiently. Daniel could have sworn that he even rolled his eyes. “I could never live in a single room. And I certainly could never work as a _servant_.”

“I am not a servant!” protested Daniel. He prickled slightly, drawing himself up-but he would not allow himself to show it, lest he enraged Fredrick further. This feeling of suppression was one he knew very well. “Well, not any more. I am an _assistant_.”

“A fancy word for “servant”!” Fredrick was laughing again in his humourless way-but the slightest hint of warmth had crept back into his expression. This merest smidgen of affection set Daniel’s heart alight. It was all he lived for…“You are rather sweet when you put on airs.” Fredrick was saying, shaking his head again. “I do enjoy you, Daniel. So much, that sometimes you make me forget who I am.”

“I love you too…” Daniel breathed. His heart had begun to slow to its regular rate.

“I know.” The corner of Fredrick’s mouth twitched slightly-before his tone became business-like onace again. “Now, we had better get out of here before someone sees us. I’ll go first-there is a cab waiting for me on the corner, and I do not want to keep him waiting, otherwise he’ll charge me double. You follow after a while, yes? Alright. Goodnight.”

Without so much as a kiss-he was gone in an instant. Daniel was left standing alone under the tree. Alone.

_ One. Two. Three. Four._

It was such a cold night. As he watched him go, his shiny boots crunching on the autumn leaves, Daniel could not help but envy Fredrick his coat-heavy, black, and so warm. He shivered, tucking his gloveless hands into his armpits against the wind…

_Fifteen…sixteen…seventeen…_

Home would not be much warmer. 

_Thirty-two…thirty-three…_

Having counted to fifty, his breath forming clouds in front of his eyes, Daniel finally deemed it safe to advance. As he made his way across the heath and onto the streets, darting from one pool of lamplight to the next, the usual flicker of fear turned his insides to mush. The stories one heard…walking alone at night frightened him greatly, and he dreaded each journey home after sunset. But being with Fredrick meant making such sacrifices. After all-the slightest soft look in his eyes warmed Daniel more than the cosiest cab ride…

Pulling his thin coat around him as tightly as he could, he pressed on, the night wind knifing his cheeks. It was so cold-and only November. Once the snow came, such nights would be hellish…but then, with his new position, perhaps he could save up and buy a better coat. Maybe some gloves too…a warm scarf…yes. Then he could bear it. The dark-the cold-it was all worth bearing, if only he could see Fredrick. In all the world, he was the only thing that mattered.

And that letter-that poor half-page of sweetness he had poured his heart into-could have ruined everything.

Daniel swallowed hard, feeling sick to his stomach. He could have kicked himself. Fredrick was right. He _was_ stupid. The stupidest person who had ever lived. That was why he had not kissed him goodbye. He wasn’t worthy of Fredrick’s kiss…he wasn’t worthy of _Fredrick_. Fredrick was like a god, beautiful, powerful, untouchable…while Daniel…

Daniel was nothing. No more than the mice at his feet in the heath. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all.


	2. Dollshouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm so sorry I failed to post yesterday! Something came up, but I promise I will post the day after tomorrow, and continue from there. Sorry to anyone I let down-I do feel awful. I hope you enjoy this chapter none the less. 
> 
> Wow, thank you so much to everyone who has commented, bookmarked, or left kudos! I really, really appreciate the support. I hope I can prove worthy of it. Thank you once again, and see you Wednesday xxx

Sleep had all but eluded Philip the previous night. Perhaps he had caught a few hours when the birds had already begun to sing, but the weight of his tiredness sat heavy on him over breakfast-of which, most unusually for him, he was only able to stomach a few mouthfuls. His dry eyes ached to close throughout the usual morning reading of the newspaper, the opening of the post, the combing of his hair, and the knotting of his tie. And, when Celia bid him farewell, before locking the front door behind her-it took every fibre of his being not to simply dash back upstairs and collapse onto his pillows, ready to dream the day away, and to simply ignore the inevitable.

Oh Celia.

Philip gulped his second cup of tea so swiftly that it burned his throat. Perhaps a visit to the water closet would mean that he avoided the dreaded knocking on the door altogether. Was that truly an option? Did he dare to tempt himself thus?

No. He could not.

Philip sat at his desk. He stood behind it. He walked around it in circles. He retook his seat and drummed his feet on the carpet. Still, the face of the little carriage clock on his left grimly displayed the progression of the minutes, the slow journey of the longer hand towards the number twelve. The striking of ten o’clock would bring…

Oh Celia. If only she was here. With Celia beside him, Philip felt as though nothing could go wrong. Her careful brown eyes, the sharpness of her mind, her attention to every detail…something as trivial as a new assistant would never phase her. It was one of the reasons Philip had married her in the first place-her extraordinarily logical mind could make sense of the world in a way that Philip could only dream of. Perhaps…he admitted, a guilty lunge in his stomach…perhaps that had been the only reason.

Oh Celia. How could he have done this to her? Philip was the most terrible person who had ever lived. How could he? For goodness sake, he _loved_ her…

In a fashion.

Especially as... 

_Dong_.

There it was. In the drawing room, the old grandfather clock was chiming. Ten times. Ten times, the same ten chimes that echoed over all of London at this time in the morning. Ten times. Ten chimes. And Philip’s heartrate increased tenfold.

One minute past the hour. Philip’s feet began to drum against the carpet once more.

Two minutes. Despite the volume of tea he had consumed, his throat was as dry as sandpaper.

Five minutes, the carriage clock showed. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Despite the tension building as he waited and waited, Philip could not help but feel somewhat jubilant. Could it be that his new assistant was late? Certainly, if he was any later, how could a gentleman in Philip’s position be expected to tolerate anything less than the excellent service he had paid for? Did this mean that he would be able to fire the boy on the spot, and put off this hell for another week or so, while the agency found him a new one? That seemed to good to be-

A shy knock on the front door. Three shy knocks.

_ Damn it_. Philip came crashing back to earth with a bump.

* * *

The baby girl in Josephine’s arms seemed almost too small to be real. Her pink skin was so soft and unbesmeared by the world, her tiny hands no bigger than a doll’s, her eyes, such a striking blue when they were open, looked too big in her little head. As if she had not quite had time to grow into them yet.

“Say hello to your Aunt Celia, Adelaide!” the new mother cooed, gently waving a fat pink arm on behalf of the little girl, who was not yet capable of even conceiving the meaning of a wave, let alone performing one. Josephine smiled hugely, utterly absorbed by this newest addition to their family. “Would you like to hold her?”

_ No. No, I would not. _

“She is so settled right now,” Celia said politely, hiding her grimace. “It would be a shame to disturb her in such a state.”

“Perhaps you’re right. As always!” Josephine giggled at her sister fondly, cuddling her daughter close. Already, Celia thought, she could see a resemblance between Josephine and the baby; both were soft, pink, and very pretty. The thin wisps of hair visible beneath Adelaide’s bonnet already looked to be the same golden curls that bounced on Josephine’s shoulders. They were the perfect picture-book addition to the pale blue sitting room, the willow-pattered china from which they drank tea, the delicate assortment of sweets that sat in the silver dish on the coffee table. Being in Josephine’s home always reminded Celia, rather disconcertingly, of a dollshouse.

“She has grown since the christening, I think.” Celia remarked, looking once more at her new niece, who was on the verge of falling asleep.

“Well, yes. Children grow.” Josephine raised her eyebrows slightly, but it was in good humour. Everything Celia’s sister did was in good humour. “You never came across that little fact of life in any of your books?” She grinned again, kissing the baby on the cheek. “My big sister, the scholar!”

Once more, Celia gave a tight smile.

“Well, I expect you’ll find out all about it soon enough,” Josephine shifted Adelaide on her lap slightly, stroking her little feet, which were clothed in soft white shoes. “When you give _me_ a niece or nephew!”

The very idea of such a thing sent a lump into Celia’s throat. However, she cleared it quickly with a slight cough, and answered with confidence. “I wouldn’t hold my breath on that front, if I were you.”

Once again, Josephine giggled, a sound which resembled a spoon clanking against a china cup. “You are funny, Celia. Goodness, if my Albert was anything like as handsome as Philip, I would have five children by now!”

With another pointed smile, Celia took a long sip of tea. “That may be so.” she murmured into the cup. Her mind, as it often did, cast itself back to her wedding day, on the steps of the church, smelling the old damp stone. It had been raining hard that day, but Celia had scarcely noticed. All she had seen was her husband; tall, clever, gentle, his dark hair bringing out those kind eyes…she had been so happy on that day…

“So what’s the issue?” Josephine pressed on through a mouthful of bon-bons, oblivious to her sister’s discomfort. “Doesn’t Philip want children?”

With a slight smirk, Celia set down her teacup. “And why should he be making all the decisions? As a matter of fact, whatever lifestyle I chose to lead, my husband will respect my wishes.”

Now, Josephine’s eyes grew as round as the moon. She swallowed the sweets, and cradled Adelaide even closer. “You are so lucky, Cee-cee. Philip lets you do _anything_ you want.”

“I could be with no one else.” Celia answered, from the heart. Still, her tone was slightly tinged with a sadness that Josephine would never pick up on. To this day, she was still unsure as to whether Philip’s tolerance of her academic and social freedom sprung from a sense of respect for her, in spite of her gender, or whether he simply did not notice.

“All those books…” Josephine was saying, unable to keep a tinge of envy from her tone, as she parroted what she had been taught. “Albert says that reading too much would upset my nerves, and my disposition would become intolerable.”

At this, Celia met her sister’s eye, and blinked slightly. “Such words from such a man…” she muttered, not bothering to hide her intense dislike of her brother-in-law. One of the reasons she visited her sister at such an hour of the morning was to ensure that the offending husband would be at the bank, and far away from anywhere his pompous, patronising disposition could irritate her. 

Suddenly-a cat-like mewl broke into her thoughts. Adelaide’s face had turned from rose to magenta, and she was wailing fit to burst in her mother’s arms. As Celia watched Josephine’s attempts to placate her, in this dollshouse of a sitting room, she could not help but miss her own strange, quiet, adult home, where she could escape to her silent study of medicine any time she wanted.

* * *

It took quite a bit of courage for Philip to open the front door. He stood with his hand on the handle for quite some time, before he worked up the guts to turn it. Instantly, a gush of cold November air enveloped him; the morning was extremely crisp, with dashes of frost upon the grass and foliage outside. It rendered him incapable of thought for a few seconds, as he grappled with the chill. However, very quickly, he regained himself, and looked down at the stranger who now stood, having taken a respectful step back after knocking, at the bottom of the stairs.

“Good morning, Mr Lester!” came the voice, soft and articulate-and quite anxious. As he spoke, the stranger tipped his hat. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The agency sent me to number forty-three by mistake!” he gabbled. “They told me you lived here. My sincerest apologies-how awful of me on my first day! I hope you are not offended, or-!”

There he was.

To say that Daniel Howell was nervous would have been an understatement. The terror of being late seemed to have stuck him to the core, and he looked up at Philip as if he was frightened of him; a sensation that was entirely new to such a non-confrontational person. But he was looking up at him with such astonishing dark eyes that Philip quite forgot to be surprised. In fact, he forgot everything altogether.

A sensation-a sensation all too grimly familiar-stirred inside him like a thousand restless butterflies. In his bones. In his very heart. 

Oh no. Oh, for goodness sake. No. No. NO.

It was happening again.


End file.
